


Let Me Touch Your Fire

by stardustsroses



Category: Throne of Glass Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Manorian, Post-Kingdom of Ash, Smut, manon x dorian - Freeform, post-Empire of Storms, the thirteen - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-14
Updated: 2018-06-14
Packaged: 2019-05-23 07:06:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14929529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardustsroses/pseuds/stardustsroses
Summary: //post-Kingdom of Ash// The war is over. After spending some time in Terrasen healing, Manon and the Thirteen are finally ready to leave and go back home. But Manon didn’t expect to find leaving him behind that difficult.





	Let Me Touch Your Fire

Manon Blackbeak Crochan looked toward the horizon, at the rising sun that now painted the cloudless Terrasen skies dusty pinks and soothing golds against a canvas of pale blue. 

She felt the warm, newborn rays kissing her cheeks, the soft breeze caressing her unbound hair. For a moment, she allowed herself to close her eyes, inhale the sweet smell of the pine trees, the dandelions, the grass. For a moment, she let herself wonder at the quietness of the forest, at the gentle grunts and the flapping of wings coming from the sleepy wyverns down below as their witches prepared them for mounting.

The thirteen had a long journey ahead of them – it was better to leave Terrasen as early as they could.

Gold met gold when Manon opened her eyes. She traced the line where sky met sea in wonder, marvelling at how the sun still managed to rise when, just a few weeks ago, the world had seemed to end. And as she gazed down at her coven from the top of that mountain, Manon realized that she was immensely glad – not only for their victory in the war against Erawan and the Valg Princes, but also glad that they had all made it through.

All of the Thirteen.

Manon was so glad. She was so grateful. For all of them.

Because they had stood their ground. They had fought with teeth and claws and magic and swords – together. Because they had known her blood – her true blood – and still they had kept their allegiance to her. And still they had bowed and called her queen. Still they had trusted Manon with their lives – they had trusted her to get them home.

And she did not break that promise.

Together until the darkness claimed them. But the darkness was still a faraway place – and it wasn’t coming for them so soon.

Indeed, Manon had great many things to be grateful for. Not only for her coven, but-

She felt Abraxos’ snout against the palm of her hand and the gentle nudge he gave her diverted her thoughts to him. He nudged her again, impatiently, asking for attention, for a little pet.

Unredeemable, lousy beast.

Manon caressed his head, her eyes glowing with endless pride, and unwavering love. “We’re going home today, Abraxos,” she declared. “Home at last.”

The wyvern lifted his eyes, then slowly his head, looking down at Manon with a dark, tender gaze. It was as if they spoke to each other silently – beast to beast. Depthless eyes that were blacker than ink stared at her with unrelenting emotion, asking her all sorts of questions, almost as if begging her for something-

“No,” she grunted. And Manon wasn’t exactly sure who she was trying to discipline – him or…herself. “We are not staying.”

Abraxos huffed once, clearly displeased. The hot air that came from him blew her hair at the top of her head. He looked away and down at the rest of the wyverns in the clearing, eyes unfocused, wings ruffling in an agitated manner behind him.

“I will not stand this stubbornness,” she warned, eyeing him from the corner of her eye. “This is not your land. This is not where we belong.”

And yet.

And yet Aelin Galathynius had allowed Manon and the rest of the witches – even the Crochans – to stay for as long as they pleased to heal and recover after the war. Because they’d fought side by side for the same cause, because they helped each other win that war.

It had surprised Manon when Aelin insisted on bringing healers for the witches and their wyverns, and specially when the fae queen had gone a step further and invited them to stay in Terrasen under her protection until they were well enough to travel back – no more debts were owned.

And as much as the queen got in her nerves still, Manon had to admit that after everything that happened, after all that despair and blood and loss, Aelin was truly an unstoppable force. A warrior in her own right. So, now – now Manon had nothing but respect for her. She believed, she knew, that it went the same way for Aelin.

Allies during the war – and allies for as long as their kingdoms lived.

“Manon.”

Asterin approached her in that mountain peak, blonde hair neatly braided at the back, fur cape tightly tucked around her strong frame, shielding her from the chilly morning breeze. 

“Are they prepared for flight?” Manon asked.

“Waiting only for your command,” replied Asterin. “Whenever you’re ready.”

I am ready.

But the words wouldn’t leave her mouth. Manon felt a rope tied to her throat, getting tighter and tighter every passing minute, every time the realization of leaving for the witch kingdom hit her. That sinking feeling wouldn’t leave her. And that…guilt she couldn’t place wouldn’t disappear.

She clenched her jaw, her fists.

Absurd.

Abraxos was already saddled. She’d just have to mount and whistle her command – and they’d be on the skies, flying home. Safe. Finally.

Manon didn’t miss the long look her cousin gave her.

“Say what you want to say, Asterin,” said Manon dryly.

“I know you’re more than willing to go home,” said Asterin, attempting a small smile. “I know that. But is there a part of you – no matter how small – that wants to stay?”

Manon turned her head to her Second slowly. “I don’t know what you’re insinuating, Asterin,” said Manon. “This isn’t our land,” she repeated. “We are flying home – all of us. Today.”

Asterin raised her chin slightly, lips tightening. There was a pause, and then the Second said, “The war has ended, Manon. Tell me, why you keep your shield up?”

Manon furrowed her eyebrows at the tone, at the nerve.

Yet Asterin only looked at her cousin, her queen, with the same amount of respect and – understanding. There was understanding in her gaze. She turned her body towards Manon, and when she spoke her tone was firm, strong, yet strangely gentle, “Don’t end a war just to start another with yourself.”

Manon turned her eyes away. “What is done is done. That’s the end of it.”

“The feelings you’re fighting,” said Asterin without a heartbeat’s pause, “they will only bring you misery if not acted upon. You might no understand them now, but he can help you understand. I can help you understand, if you only let me in. Because love-”

“Will get you killed more easily than a sword,” finished Manon. “You, Asterin, are the proof of that.”

Asterin paused, letting herself feel the sting that was purposefully meant to accompany those words. But she knew her queen – she saw beneath the layers of ice that hid the Manon that she knew. The Manon she’d seen during the war – not the heartless, brutal, unforgiving warrior, but…the Manon who had stopped in the middle of a battlefield, warn out and bruised, her sword midstrike, just to let out a strangled cry so desperate, so frighteningly anguished as the king of Adarlan was jumped by ten Valg soldiers.

Manon split their bodies open, ripped their throats out with one simple strike, and then she had carved out their hearts and stomped them to the ground. And when she had punched through the wall of ice and fire the king’s powers had created, when she held his bloodied face to her chest – Asterin had seen it.

A river of tears down Manon’s face. A mixture of shouts and cries of Wake up, Look at me, Stay with me, Please. Please. Please. Dorian.

They’d all seen it. They’d all pretended not to in the aftermath of the war. But they’d all seen their leader break – for a human. Nonetheless, Manon had paid no notice. She hadn’t cared. She had carried the human’s unconscious body far, far away from the battlefield. And she had shouted orders left and right for him to be taken away somewhere safe, for someone, anyone, to take him away – save him.

And then the king had opened his eyes and taken her hand. And they’d all heard him – Witchling, help me up.

Witchling.

Princeling.

Asterin had stood by Manon – sword held high, iron nails and teeth at the ready – ever the faithful protector of her leader. And yet she had let her eyes take in the sight in front of her: Dorian Havilliard, broken and blood that was not entirely his, and his raw magic covering his body, healing him, making him stand, urging him to live. And Manon – Manon had looked on. And he look on her face-

It had broken something in Asterin.

Such raw emotion in the gold eyes. Such sincerity.

War did change things. War had the power to turn a rabbit into a wolf, but – it seemed to have had the opposite effect.

They hadn’t left the battlefield for long when a handful of Valg ran for them in between the trees. And as Asterin filled her hands with their black blood, Dorian and Manon had taken the rest out one by one. The relief that had flooded Manon’s face…

“Why are you doing this?” Manon said, almost spitting the words.

“Love is not a weakness,” said Asterin. “None of us think you’re weak for what happened during the war. And for what happened after – when you stayed with him. He was in bad shape, we understand how…anxious you were. We understand how you feel, Manon. Trust me, if I could go back, even despite every terrible thing that happened, I would-”

Manon felt as if she had been slapped. Yet her face showed nothing. With a voice rough as stone she said, “I don’t need anything else.”

Beside her, Abraxos grew restless.

“I know,” said Asterin. “But would it be so terrible to-”

“Enough, Asterin.”

Asterin closed her mouth abruptly, swallowing down the words.

Manon wanted to be enraged. She wanted to step in front of her cousin and demand that she mind her damn place, and remind her who she was talking to. But Asterin – Asterin was the one who had the guts to tell Manon everything and anything the others wouldn’t. Asterin was always the first one to stand with her, always the first one to support her. To care.

So Manon made herself breathe in. She made herself ignore that tug deep within her. And instead, she said, “I should throw you over this mountain for your nerve.”

And Asterin grinned. “You would never be able to replace me.”

Manon snorted. But she knew it was the truth.

Then Abraxos turned his head sharply to look behind them at the dense forest, and instantly, Manon did the same. The breeze went past them, blowing out her moon-white hair, and that’s when that scent reached her.

At the blink of an eye, Manon forgot everything. She forgot about Asterin, and that she was supposed to leave. She forgot how to breathe. Her head became clouded, her mind shattered in two – it was telling her to go. Telling her to stay.

And Asterin looked at her.

Manon swallowed. Without looking at her Second, she ordered, “Give them the command to get in the skies. I’ll be right with you.”

The Second scented the air, what – who – was coming toward them. Then she looked at Manon, and a small, secret smile spread across her face. With a small bow, Asterin backed away two and three steps, whistling for her wyvern, who took her down to where the rest of the Thirteen were waiting.

Manon took a breath.

Abraxos seemed to be squealing with joy, for he, too, had scented the air and sensed the masculine presence it belonged to.

And soon enough, the king of Adarlan appeared, his blue-black hair shining in the morning light, eyes as clear as the skies above, shirt and pants crinkled and messy – as if he’d just gotten out of bed.

“Leaving without so much as a goodbye?” He said to her.

Manon felt the bitterness in those words – yet he was grinning. Widely. Wildly.

Behind them, the wyverns took the skies, a sound of wings and growls and commands from their owners disappearing in the altitude.

“Was it needed?” Manon challenged, crossing her arms over her cape, her chin raised high.

Dorian prowled to her. There were no furs to keep him warm. Nothing but the white shirt he’d worn yesterday, unbuttoned at the top, showing the trail of thin, almost invisible dark hair that led down, down, down to his chest. Further down. His knee-high boots were the only detail in his attire that seemed warm enough.

Yet he showed no signs of being cold.

He showed no signs of hesitation toward the heart-eyed wyvern, now laying lazily on the ground, nuzzling his snout on the grass and looking up at the king as if waiting for a treat.

Dorian grinned down at him. Then he looked up, eyes like fire, burning her to the core. “Some would consider having a woman run out of their bed the next morning without saying a word quite…unsettling.”

“I’m not a woman.”

The king trailed his eyes shamelessly up and down her body – twice – his lips quirking up as if saying he disagreed, for she had every part of any other woman, and then reminding her that he’d seen it all. “You’re missing my point, witchling.”

Manon said nothing. She looked on, chin raised high, eyebrows raised higher, eyes set on nothing but indifference.

But she heard the steady heart beating beneath his heated skin, heard him take a breath as he approached her – closer and closer – felt the warmth of him, the scent of him, envelop her like one of those late-night embraces he had given her. Lazy embraces – arms gently wrapping around her naked body, pulling her closer to him in his sleep, his mouth touching her shoulder, his nose against her head, breathing deep, breathing slow – she remembered them. She craved them just now as she looked at him. Just a few feet away. If she’d take six steps she’d be upon him, breathing him in.

Darkness take me.

But Manon made herself remember what she was – what he was. Made herself realize the stupidity of her own thoughts – memories.

She clenched her fists. “Your queen knows about our departure from her lands. There is nothing else left for me to do here,” she said evenly. Manon whistled, snapping her fingers, and Abraxos – rather reluctantly – lifted himself up, readying himself up for the flight. “So goodbye, princeling,” she bowed, then turned to her wyvern. “Careful with the mountain lions.”

“You saved me.”

One, two, three seconds passed. Four, five, six heart beats of silence. And then Dorian continued, “You saved my life.”

“You saved mine,” she said over her shoulder. “I was paying my debts.”

“Liar,” he snorted.

Manon turned at the tone, seething. His eyes were a challenge, a dare. She faced him.

“I heard you scream for me,” he said. “It echoed throughout that battlefield. I felt you holding me. And after…when I was weak and on the brink of death you were with me. You screamed at the healers when my powers failed me. You demanded they save me or else you’d hang their heads on the gates.” Dorian did not move. His face did not change. There was no amusement now. Nothing but that intensity, that burning ice coating his eyes. “You stayed with me every night. In one of those nights, I felt you running your hands through my hair. I got goose bumps all over my arms. I heard you – I heard you saying I had to wake up, I had to live.”

“You-”

“You care. You do care for me,” he said. “You’re running away like a coward because you don’t like it and you don’t know how to deal with it.”

And as much as she wanted to punch him for all he said – Manon couldn’t deny the truth. He knew. And she had been terrified to lose him. She had threatened everybody who came near him. She had done all those things – without even thinking of the consequences. How that would reflect on her, on her coven. She had been reckless and thoughtless, and-

Even now, she could see the slight limp as he walked. Could see the tiny bruises on his face, the cut on the side of his face, near his temple, that would never fade. She could see the healing bruise on his right arm – the one she had kissed the night before, when she’d pinned his arms next to his head on the mattress.

Manon shook those images from her mind. She muttered coldly, “I have murdered humans like you for sport.”

Dorian stared at her.

“And I enjoyed having their life drain from my fingers. I killed and killed and killed some more for one hundred years,” she snarled. “Just for the sake of it.”

“And I murdered men in cold blood,” said Dorian. “Even though he ordered me to do it – part of me wanted it. Part of me craved it. Do you think we’re so different, Manon? Try me.”

Manon.

She could see the pain in his eyes as he pronounced the words, as he remembered-

“Don’t you dare,” she said. “Don’t you dare compare-”

“Do you honestly believe,” he said, smiling in cold bitterness, “that telling me all that will change my mind? That your nature will make me stop wanting you?” One step closer. “I also did terrible things, Manon.”

“You will not redeem me.”

“I don’t want to redeem you. I want you – just you.”

The words he spoke – and the way he spoke them – made a shiver run down her spine.

“What-? Are you so convinced you don’t deserve this? The way I make you feel?” He dared.

Manon urged her mind to start working, urged her body to move. But she was planted in place, a century of cruelty drifting away, taken with the wind. She was nothing, she realized. She wasn’t brutal – and she wasn’t a leader. She wasn’t a beast – and she wasn’t good. She was nothing she had been taught to be when his blue eyes were on her. Not the heartless witch, not the warrior queen. She wasn’t half demon clinging to a buried past – and she wasn’t a monster trying to find forgiveness.

She was nothing. And yet she was everything when he took her in his arms during those nights.

She was just Manon. A name – just a name – with no other connotations.

Manon had liked being nobody, she realized.

But she wasn’t nobody. She was Manon Blackbeak Crochan. And she had a kingdom to rule. 

“Have a good life, princeling,” she said. Then she granted him a smile – a single smile, one she knew he recognized. “I will cherish the moments.”

And she turned away, intent on never looking back, and made to climb Abraxos’ saddle-

Ten fingers dug into her waist. Ten fingers pulled her back, turned her around, squeezing at her sides. She gasped.

Dorian tutted. 

Invisible hands made to push her toward their owner. Manon furrowed her eyebrows, digging her heels onto the grass, attempting to fight it, attempting to restrain herself from giving in to him, from wanting those hands-

“Come to me,” he crooned.

“You really do have a death wish, princeling,” she growled.

But Dorian could detect that change to her tone as those hands dipped lower, then lower, cupping her backside. He could see the change in her eyes, the gleam in them.

They were so good at playing this game.

And then he stopped.

Manon could still feel those phantom fingers gently tracing her sides – just a whisper of a touch, like they were nothing but the breeze – and yet she could still feel the burning touch against her skin, like he’d stripped her naked right there and touched her with his real hands.

“What are you-”

“Abraxos,” said Dorian. Manon looked up to see Abraxos’ eyes shoot up to the king. “Go fly around for a bit.”

Then Dorian made a gesture with his hand in the air – a command he’d seen her do. A command Abraxos clearly understood. Without another look, the wyvern took flight, leaving an open-mouthed Manon staring after him.

“How dare you,” she fumed. Yet her eyes were jumping between him and Abraxos, wondering when that bloody beast had decided to take orders from someone other than her.

Wondering when he had become so attached to the king – to go as far as listening to his orders as quickly as he obeyed her own.

“How did you do that?” Manon added, eyebrows furrowed.

But Dorian only stared at her with that quiet intensity, with that male smile – so arrogant, so sensual – and she found herself taken aback by that grin. Manon had seen that expression during the early hours of the morning, when they’d woken up in each other’s arms. When he’d stared at her for what it seemed like hours without saying a single word.

And the way he looked at her…

It was as if he had nothing to fear. It was as if he had nothing to hate. When the dawn light had flooded through his room and the pale sunlight trailed along his naked chest and up to his blue eyes…Manon thought to herself that she would not mind to stay a bit longer, if he kept staring at her with that gaze.

And yet she couldn’t quite place that gaze. She could not read him. And it was frightening as much as it was intoxicating – not knowing exactly where he stood with her. Where they stood.

Did she even want to know?

Dorian’s phantom hands pushed her toward him. His eyes did not change, but his mouth was parting, those full lips staring at her-

She did not resist.

Manon let herself be led by those icy fingers pressing against her lower back, and she let herself be enveloped by his warmth, his scent – still entwining with hers, from the night before – then she let him, with one final tug, push her into his arms.

His lips touched hers.

And it reminded her of sunlight. It reminded her of a cold winter morning. It reminded her of flower petals and sweet, fresh fruit.

It reminded her of the first time he’d kissed her. A gentle touch, nothing more, nothing less. A challenge. He kissed her lips like he had all the time in the world to spare – then his mouth touched the corner of hers, then the other side, then her cheek, then her other cheek, and then when she could barely gather her thoughts, Dorian pulled away and he stared and stared – he could’ve stared for a millennium.

“Tell me something,” he finally whispered. “Do you regret anything that we’ve done?”

“No,” she said, voice failing to be even. “No, I don’t.”

His real hands were on her waist. Thumbs running up and down her hip bone over her clothes.

Manon thought she was an ice cube melting all over the grass.

“Say you wish to end this,” he said. “Say you do not want me any longer. Say the word and I will walk away this second.”

Manon could say nothing. Because she knew he would.

Speak, she told herself. Tell him to stay. Order him to leave.

Dorian. Wake up. Wake up. Please. Princeling. You idiot, you bloody, rutting idiot. Please, I need-

What did she need?

His body? Only his body? His mind? His soul?

What do you want, Manon?

You. I want you.

Say it again.

You, Dorian. Dorian, I want you.

Dorian’s hands fell from her waist and the ice made its way into her heart and into her veins and something inside her shattered at seeing his face turning away, at seeing his eyes darken, his shoulders hunching in tiredness and in…

Hurt.

“You once told me,” he said, not looking at her. “You once told me to take what you offered me and nothing more.”

There was sadness – she realized – true, anguished sadness deep within her. And it was entwined with feelings she did not comprehend, did not want-

“Is that still our reality?” He looked at her.

No-Yes.

Thanks for saving me, witchling. Thanks for keeping me alive.

Anytime, princeling.

It’s king, now. Remember?

Princeling suits you better.

Dorian’s eyes were downcast now. He bowed his head curtly, jaw tight, body tight, defeat painted in every corner of his features, and he said, “Be safe.”

The earth was splitting into two as he turned away from her.

Will I ever stop? – wanting you this much, I mean.

Manon. I love saying your name. Manon. Manon.

Stay tonight. Stay tomorrow, too. 

Manon.

I would’ve torn them apart with my bare hands if they had hurt you, witchling. I would stop at nothing to get to you.

I would not harm you.

And without a second thought, Manon’s finger wrapped around his shirt, her lips parted.

She had so many words. She had so much to say.

When Dorian turned to her, eyes wider, when his eyes searched her face, Manon thought Gods – she thought What am I doing. What is this, and she thought Yes. Yes.

Her fingers were on the collar of his shirt pulling him close, so close – then her lips touched his.

Hands – real hands – were grasping and pulling her to his chest, clinging to her for dear life. Manon trailed hers down his collarbones, feeling every bone and every muscle and every scar, delighting herself in that warmth, that heartbeat. Her head was spinning – her senses intent on him and him only. His scent was overpowering, driving her absolutely, certifiably insane.

When his tongue brushed hers, the world became fire and embers and ice and frost and Manon was lost and she was found and she was falling, fast and hard, onto the ground. When her mouth made its way down his throat just to stop in that spot where his neck met his shoulder, she felt like she was in a land of their own making, forever forgetting who they were and what they were supposed to be and what they had done to get there.

When her teeth gently traced his skin, when Dorian parted his lips and let out the most delicious sound – Manon kicked away her pretences and she threw out her reasons.

There was nothing, there was no one – but him.

Dorian touched the button on her cape that kept it secure around her neck, and next thing she knew the fabric was sliding down, falling into the grass. Then Manon had her finger on the top button of his shirt, and an iron nail tore through each and every single button – slow.

She made to tear the fabric away completely, but Dorian pinned her against the tree. Manon had looked down – toward his bad leg, remembering, noticing his limp – but then Dorian had his lips on her own throat, and his hands were on her cheeks, tilting her head back, and she could think of nothing, could feel nothing, but him. And him. And only him.

Darkness have mercy on her.

“Say it has changed for you,” he whispered against her skin. “Say it. Manon-“

Manon licked her lips. She swallowed the lump in her throat.

She had been staring at him. He had been sleeping soundly next to her, his arms around a pillow, his lips parted, hair like spilled ink falling onto his forehead, his eyes. She’d made to pull it away, yet her hand stopped midway. She let herself marvel, only briefly, at the serene expression, at the slow breathing, at the humanness in him.

And Manon had laid her head down on the pillow, and she’d stared. Until he let out a little grunt, adjusting himself, turning, so slow – lazily, almost – and his hand…it searched for her. And it found her.

“C’mere.”

His eyes hadn’t opened. His voice was a slur.

“Manon,” he’d called. His hand slid to her naked back – she’d shivered. And yet she hadn’t pulled away. She’d waited. As if curious to see what he’d do next.

And Dorian’s arms had wrapped around her frame, pulling her close to his body. Manon wondered if, even in dreams, the king knew he had unconsciously pressed a witch’s mouth and hands against his vulnerable chest – directly where his heart lay.

She’d wondered why he did not dream of her ripping it out.

And Manon realized she did not care.

So she’d closed her eyes, breathed in his scent – and she’d slept.

“You said my name,” she whispered.

Dorian’s lips stilled on her jaw. His hands froze on her hips. And then he was looking down at her, so close. Every part of him pressed and aligned with every part of her.

“What?” His hot breath passed over her lips, and Manon arched into him.

“When you slept,” she continued, swallowing down the knot that tangled in her throat. “You said my name. Always. When you were reaching for me.”

“Yes,” he said. “Yes.”

Manon looked down at his lips, looked up at his sapphire eyes. “I don’t know how to give,” she said, her words falling short.

And yet they were enough for him.

“What do you want to give me, Manon?” Dorian breathed. “What is it that you’re willing to give me?”

And she didn’t have the words.

Manon didn’t know – she couldn’t begin to explain the way her mind had split open. How to tell him – how she was walking a fine line between wanting him – wanting his body, his mind, his soul, his everything – and wanting to destroy that part of her that was weak. That part of her that still maintained the ability to love. To care.

Love isn’t weakness.

Love – witches don’t feel love. Love is weakness.

Love was weakness. Yes.

But there was always freedom in that weakness.

Manon wanted to be free.

So she whispered, so softly, “Everything.”

Gold met blue. And then Dorian was touching the back of her thighs, lifting her up – up against the tree, stepping in between her spread legs and wrapping her thighs around his waist. And the breeze flew between them, but he was warm – he was a blazing desert – and Manon reached for his hair, tangling her fingers in the softness of his locks, and she tilted her head down to take his lips.

It was an extraordinary kiss.

And she knew what had made it different.

He tasted her and tasted her until her head was smoke, until her mind switched off, until her legs were squeezing at his hips, waiting, wanting to feel him pressed against her centre.

“Dorian,” she croaked. Her voice was mingled with a breathless moan that he cut off with his lips.

But her hands were clawing at his chest, pushing his shirt off his shoulders. And Dorian’s hands slid down to her own furs, pushing them open, revealing her own chest to him.

His lips. Sliding down. Her chest.

She was a trembling mess in his arms.

Dorian’s lips circled her breast, slowly, his eyes looking up at her, wicked and lovely and filled with fire. Manon threw her head back, her fingers digging into the back of his neck, urging him to take and take and never stop taking.

“Say yes.”

“Yes.”

Then Dorian put her down, his hand caressing the back of her thigh on its way, gripping her backside. His clever fingers fumbled with her belt, tips teasingly tracing the hem of her trousers. His movements were slow, so torturing slow. And Manon almost wanted to beg, forgetting that somewhere far, up in the air, the Thirteen were waiting for her. Abraxos was waiting for her.

But then-

“Do you know what went through my mind,” Dorian whispered as he dropped her belt to the ground, as he opened the two buttons of her trousers, “when I awoke and you weren’t there?”

Manon hissed as his hand descended down, down, passing pushing past her trousers, her underwear. His fingers-

She took in a sharp breath.

She wanted to devour him.

“Do you?” He rasped in her ear.

Manon couldn’t keep her hips still. Not as his fingers circled that spot. Not as he caressed her, so slow, so gentle, so patient. Not as his hand slipped further down, and the tip of his finger-

She eyes fluttered closed.

“The first thing I thought, Manon,” his voice was a soft caress against her cheek, his lips were satin against her skin, “was that they had taken you away.”

Then iron claws slid down. Her hands were on his shoulders, gripping, squeezing in time with his movements.

“I thought they had taken you away from me.”

Dorian looked at the claws, looked at her face, and then two of his fingers slid easily into her. “I woke up in cold sweats. When I didn’t feel you, I went mad.” Then his fingers curved inside her.

“Please.”

There it was.

The only time Manon Blackbeak Crochan begged for anything in her life.

“Please what?”

“Dorian,” she was growling.

“What do you want, Manon?” He drawled, the slow pace of his fingers driving her closer and closer to the edge. “What do you want, Manon?”

Manon whimpered, claws dragging down the skin of his chest. And when she heard his moan against her ear, when she felt his hardness press against her leg, when his thumb pressed down just the right way- 

The world shattered.

She was a seismic sea wave, crashing and trashing against the cliff rocks, abruptly unravelling on the shore.

“Look at you,” Dorian murmured, kissing her cheek, smiling against her skin. “Look how pretty you are when you come.”

The words made a shiver run down her spine. Dorian removed his fingers, watching her.

And she was disappointed to find him retreating from her. Manon found that she had found no relief. There was still something missing. Her heart hammered in his chest, her legs still trembled as he leaned down, as if he’d kiss her, but his lips just hovered there.

“Is this all you desire?” He asked.

And Manon lifted her eyes to look into his, saying, “No.”

Dorian smiled – a smile so secretive, so genuine. A smile she’d seen as she’d trailed her lips down his chest the night before. A smile she’d seen as he threw his head back, an arm over his eyes, laughing at something she’d said.

She wanted that smile to be forever on his face. She wanted to be the reason for it.

“No?”

“No, it’s not all I want,” she breathed. “I want more.” And Manon found herself repeating those words in her head, as if saying them out loud made her realize further how much she wanted him – how much she couldn’t part with him. Yet. “I want you. To belong to me.”

“I already do,” he said, so softly.

She could hear his heart – it was beating in time with hers.

Manon touched a hand to his chest – feeling the pounding beneath – and she pushed, until Dorian was sitting down, on her disregarded cloak, on the grass.

And as she stared at him, Manon made to push her trousers down but then his hands were on hers, and he was pushing the fabrics down, down her legs and off her ankles, throwing them to the grass.

She was wearing an open fur coat and nothing else. Manon felt his powers embrace her – his warmth trailing over her naked skin, then phantom fingers memorizing her sides as they helped her down, helped her sit on him.

“It has changed,” she murmured as he wrapped his arms around her. “I don’t know when, or how, or why. But it has.”

Dorian nodded, his gaze intent, caring.

“I don’t know how it works,” she confessed, looking away.

But Dorian touched her chin, turning her face to him. His eyes – they were the colour of the skies – and they told her a million things that words could never properly convey. “Don’t hide from me,” he said. “You’ve seen my fire, Manon. You’ve seen everything – the good, and the bad. So let me see yours. Let me see your fire. Let me touch it.”

And Manon could only think – there was no other who would let a witch’s claws that close to his face. There was no man she’d seen – been with – that took notice of her claws and did not try to run away from her.

Yet Dorian was running to her.

She wanted to touch his face. She wanted to memorize the contours of his face. His jaw. His cheekbones. The spot behind his ears.

“Don’t fight it, Manon,” Dorian said. “Do it. Do what you just thought of doing.”

There was no way of him knowing-

And yet.

He read her like an open book.

She wanted to touch his face. So she did. 

Her claws retreated, and her hands gently lay on his cheeks. Soft – his skin was so soft, warm. His lips – like satin. She dragged her thumb over the bottom lip, then his upper lip, and Dorian parted his lips to place a kiss on her finger, on the palm of her hand. 

There was a tingling on her stomach at the gesture.

Because all his movements were slow, and gentle, and unhurried. And she knew nothing of those things.

She wanted to learn. With him.

“I wanted you too,” she said. “Since Oakwald.”

“I noticed.”

That grin.

Arrogant bastard.

“It was brave of you,” she mused, sliding a finger down his throat. “To play with a witch made of iron.”

Dorian smirked. “It was brave of you,” he crooned. “To play with a prince blessed with raw magic.”

Indeed.

Manon tangled her hand in his hair, fingers caressing his scalp, making him close his eyes.

“I’m bored of games,” said Manon.

“Because you keep winning?”

“Because there’s always a possibility of losing,” she replied. And then Manon, slowly, so slowly, leaned in, and touched her lips to his chin. She felt him breathe in, heard him swallow. She whispered, “And I don’t want to lose this time.”

A heartbeat later, Dorian took her lips, and he gave her everything she asked for, everything she begged for. Because the witch…she had indeed caught him in her hands, and he hadn’t wanted to leave ever since.

So, when she asked for his body, Dorian took no time in unzipping his own trousers and leading her, helping her down. Manon let out a strangled moan as he did, as he pushed her down on him, as his teeth grazed her shoulder, as he slowly moved her hips, up and down, up and down.

She thought her heart would collapse in her chest. And yet – and yet Manon made herself slow down, made herself count his heartbeats, one by one, and she moved on him. Made herself remember the anguish she’d felt, seeing him laying down on that bed, broken and bruised, the panic in her mind, as she wondered whether he would get to see another sunrise.

She made her movements slow, deliberate. Made sure he felt everything as she sat up and down, gently. She made herself meet his gaze – and not look away from him. She never wanted to look away.

Dorian was smiling.

“That’s it,” he whispered, in between a low moan. “That’s it.”

A similar noise rose up from her throat. And Dorian never left her – his arms never left her.

His fire never left her.

They’d never gone this slow. Manon realized she hadn’t cherished his body enough. She’d never known this kind of restraint. This kind of pleasure with him. With them, it was always urgent kisses, lip biting, scratches down their backs. Never this.

But this.

At a certain point Manon threw her head back, for his lips made contact with her throat, making her tremble, making her make the type of noises she’d never dared to let him hear before. She felt his smile against her skin, felt his own breathless moans against her neck.

At the feel of his fingers pressing down at her centre, just the right amount, at the feel of his teeth on her ear lobe, Manon clenched around him. She gasped against his cheek, holding on to him, because she wasn’t sure her grip was still on that world. She thought that maybe she would float away, far, far away, and never come back.

And Dorian’s fingers were digging into her skin, his eyes squeezing shut, his mouth parted, making all sorts of wonderful noises. So Manon met his thrusts, urging him towards his own end, watching him almost in wander, as he unravelled before her.

Her own eyes squeezed shut as Dorian finished with one harsh thrust into her.

He let his forehead fall on her shoulder, breathing in deep, arms snaking around her body, refusing to let her go.

“Dorian,” said Manon after a pause, not daring to move, not daring to lift herself off him.

“Manon,” he said back, leaving a kiss on her temple, and seemingly less tempted than her to move.

She pulled her face away to look at him. “You’ll always be welcome in the Witch Kingdom.”

Dorian was looking at her with amusement dancing in his eyes. “Is that a cordial invitation to your bed, then?” His devious lips touched her jaw.

Despite herself, Manon allowed a smile. “Not just my bed.”

“Not just your bed, hum?”

“No.”

He was smiling – but she knew he understood the words for their true meaning.

“I’ll miss you,” he admitted. “Until then, I’ll miss you.”

Dorian’s phantom hands were picking up her clothes, dragging them close, yet his eyes never left hers; yet he made no move to separate himself from her.

And Manon felt free enough to say, “Yes,” she whispered. “Until then, I’ll miss you,” she repeated. “I’ll miss you, princeling.”

They kissed. Like they had all the time in the world to do so. And Dorian insisted to help with her clothes, and he took his time doing so – Stalling, she’d said.

He denied it – yet he kept distracting her with kisses.

And when Manon called for Abraxos, when Dorian watched her mount him-

His mouth had quirked into a smile. For his heart was full and relieved – it wasn’t a goodbye. Not really.

He didn’t think it would ever come to that between them.

Manon had smiled – truly smiled – before claiming the skies for her own. And even then – she had looked over her shoulder, at the king of fire and ice waving at her, knowing fully well that she wouldn’t get those sapphire eyes out of her head until the next time they saw each other.

She only turned around when he was a small dot in the distance. And when she looked again at that horizon, at that blinding sun that led her towards her kingdom, Manon realized how wonderful, how incredibly, it felt to finally be free.


End file.
